


High School Never Prepared Me (For You)

by chemomantic



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemomantic/pseuds/chemomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day an undeniably hot art teacher shows Frank how to get to his English class, and ever since then Frank knew high school would never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High School Never Prepared Me (For You)

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be broken up into 4 parts surrounding Frank's freshman year, sophomore year, junior year and senior year of high school.
> 
> IMPORTANT: Frank is underage in the beginning of the story, but nothing illegal happens.

You know that feeling you get when you're trying to fall asleep but you can't, so you worry about whether or not you're ever going to fall asleep and end up staying awake until 5AM? Well, right then, that was me. I couldn't close my eyes without experiencing the irresistible urge to open them right back up, and I didn't know why this kept happening. It wasn't like I was filled with nerves or anything. I mean, yeah, I was starting my first day of high school in three hours, but I wasn't nervous about that. I wasn't nervous at all, actually. I was just irritated.

Now, what was it that I was irritated about? A lot of things, if I'm gonna be honest. First of all, my summer had sucked major balls. My parents had decided that it'd be a great idea to go through a divorce that lasted practically the entire three months of vacation, so I really hadn't gotten the chance to enjoy my last summer before being inducted into hell (high school). My dad left us the house, but I would've prefered living on the streets than be forced to feel the throbbing pain in my chest that threatened to make my eyes water whenever I thought about having no one to teach me guitar that summer, like he'd promised he would. I understood that he had the divorce to worry about, and didn't have time to keep old promises, but it still hurt.

Secondly, my dog ran away. Even though I'd gotten her as a graduation gift and only had her for about a month, I still missed her a lot. Granted, she'd been an old, ugly little thing, with coarse, faded black fur and a tongue that was too big to fit completely in her mouth, but she had been mine and had made me happy.

Thirdly, I'd gotten really sick for a couple weeks because apparently my body thought it would be clever and become lactose intolerant almost 15 years after my birth. I mean, I was always getting ill, but now I couldn't even have the good kind of ice cream. And what's summer without ice cream? 

Another reason why my summer had sucked so badly was because I hadn't even gotten the chance to hangout with my best friend, Ray. The jerk had begged his parents to send him to some summer camp for musically inclined kids, and he hadn't even asked me if I wanted to go with. Like, yeah, okay, I probably wouldn't have even been able to because my parents needed all the money they could get for all the legal shit that went with no longer wanting to spend the rest of your life with someone, but still. It would've been nice to at least have been thought about.

I bit down hard on my bottom lip, grinding my teeth into the squishy flesh. My summer had been terrible, and now my first year of high school was going to suck out the remaining life I'd somehow managed to hang on to. All I wanted to do was sleep, but my mind was still not having it, even as the clock neared 6AM.

"Ugh, come _on_ ," I groaned, grabbing my pillow and shoving it over my head when the first of the early morning birdsongs started outside my bedroom window. Maybe I could suffocate myself before they got any louder.

* * *

"Frank," hummed a faraway voice. _No_ , I thought desperately, silently begging myself to stay asleep. It had been 6:13AM when my eyes finally shut, and I didn't want to get up after only getting half an hour of rest.

"Frank," the voice called again, closer this time. _No, God, please_ , I thought, but the more I tried to convince myself to stay asleep, the more awake and aware my body became.

"Frank!" yelled the voice for a third time, and I flinched when my bedroom door went slamming against the wall. "What are you still doing in bed? I told you to get dressed forty minutes ago! You need to get to the bus stop in fifteen minutes!" my mother bitched. I cracked open one of my eyelids to look at her; the anger in her eyes told me she was not happy, and if I even attempted to push her buttons then my ass would be in the fryer. 

"Sorry," I mumbled, pushing myself up from my nest of extreme comfiness. I felt weak all over. "I didn't sleep much," I revealed to her, trying to get some sympathy thrown my way, but she wasn't having it.

"Then you should've gone to bed earlier, it's your fault. Hurry up and put some clothes on, you still need to have breakfast." With that, she exited my room, leaving the door wide open in her trail. I rose up from my bed and shut it, but I guess I'd accidentally used too much force and it made a loud slamming noise.

I went over to my dresser and pulled on a maroon t-shirt that had been worn and washed so many times that the graphics were unreadable. I didn't bother changing out of my loose gray sweatpants. I was so tired that I didn't care about looking presentable on the first day of school, and my unruly dyed bronze hair proved that. I didn't bother styling it into its usual mohawk, just let the strands hang in my face. I grabbed a pencil and a notebook and trudged downstairs.

"Have something to eat," my mom told me. "Then go back upstairs and brush your hair."

"I can't find my brush," I lied while taking out a strawberry poptart from the cupboard. She blew out a small, frustrated stream of air from her mouth and went upstairs. I was just starting the second artificially sweetened pastry when she returned with a black plastic brush.

"Whoa, where'd you find it?" I asked, pretending to be amazed by her skill at finding things. She shook her head, dark eyes annoyed.

"On your dresser, next to the brand new clothes I bought you for today. Frank, you look like you just rolled out of bed."

I grinned; that had been the exact look I'd been going for. "I did."

"Don't you care about first impressions?"

"Not really, no. Not today, at least," I admitted.

"Today is _crucial_ for first impressions," she stressed, shaking her head at me in disapproval. "High school is a totally different ballpark than junior high."

"I don't get baseball references," I joked while finishing off the last of my poptart. She made an annoyed noise and began brushing my tangled hair. "Ouch!" I hissed when she tugged a certain tendril too hard.

"High school is a totally different venue than junior high," she teased, massaging the back of my head with her long manicured nails.

"Ah, now I understand," I said, closing my eyes and leaning more into her touch. Ten seconds later there was a honk from outside, and both of us jumped from the loud interruption.

"That's Sarah," she said, removing her hand from my hair and pushing me towards the front door. "She's taking me to work today, and you need to get going to the bus stop." I wished we could've stood there forever, with her hands in my hair and myself safe from the hellish halls of high school, but I knew that went against everything fate stood for. My mother and I had our falling outs, but at the end of the day I was her son and she was my mom, and I still loved her no matter how stressed or tired she was. And she still loved me no matter how annoying or difficult I was--I think.

"Be good," she told me, and the finger she pointed in my face told me she meant it. "No fighting, no crude comments, no phone calls home, no detentions, no _nothing_. At least until the first week is over, alright?"

"Deal," I promised. She hugged me tightly and placed a dry-lipped kiss on my forehead before opening the front door. We walked out together but went separate ways at the driveway.

It was 7:34 by the time I got to the bus stop. Ray and Bob were already there, talking about all their fun summer activities. A couple other kids were there, too, including the guy with the giant lips and forehead who had been in my music class last year. _Branden Urine_ , I thought, but it didn't sound right to my head, so I chose not to acknowledge him.

"Hey, Frank," said Bob. "You cut your hair."

"Huh? Oh, yeah." I instinctively ran my hand through my short golden-bronze mohawk. "Your hair got lighter."

"My parents dragged me to Florida."

"That blows," I said, even though I'd kill to have a happy family vacation with both of my parents.

"That's what I said!" Bob said, glad that someone understood his disposition for not wanting to be stuck in the extreme heat with his conservative family members.

Ray nudged me excitedly, his mass of puffy brown curls bouncing with his excited movements. He was a total morning person. "Can I see your schedule?" he asked. I handed him the slip of white paper I'd tucked in my notebook. "We have biology, world history and English together," he told me, excited.

"Rad," I answered, too tired to even pretend to be excited. Yeah, I was happy to have Ray in at least some of my classes, but I would've been even happier if I'd actually gotten any sleep last night.

"So, how was your summer?" Ray asked, because he hadn't been there for it and didn't have a fucking clue about how much I'd needed him.

"Great," I lied. I was good at that, lying. I think I got it from my dad.

Ray and Bob stared at me for a couple seconds, probably wondering why I wasn't asking them about their summers or to see their schedules. I just stared back. Soon enough they faced each other and returned to their discussion about the newest album by a band I had no idea about. I groaned internally and stared down at my shoes until the bus turned around the corner and pulled up to the small swarm of mostly freshmen students.

Ray and Bob sat next to each other, and the only available seats were next to weirdo Pete Wentz and the kid with the giant lips and forehead. I decided to go for the kid with the unproportional facial features.

As soon as I sat down, the kid turned to me and said, "I'm actually saving this spot for Ryan, but you can sit here until he gets on the bus."  _Who the fuck is Ryan?_ I thought, but just nodded my head. Okay, fine. Whatever.

Two bus stops later, a really lanky guy with short brown hair got on the bus. I assumed that he was Ryan because the guy next to me cleared his throat and bumped my shoulder. I rolled my eyes and got up from the seat; the only available spot was still next to Pete Wentz, who had held the reputation as the weirdest kid in school since fourth grade when he brought his pet ant farm to school and fed them his boogers. We were more so acquaintances than anything else, so I decided to keep it civil with him.

"Hi, Frank," Pete said when I slid into the spot next to him.

"Hi, Pete."

"You would not believe my summer. I literally ate seven boxes of pizza by myself every Saturday. _And_ I got my first pimple, but it's not where you'd think it'd be. Wanna see?"

"That's great, Pete. And no." By the time we pulled up to the school, and Pete was still going on and on about his summer that I honestly didn't give two shits about, I wanted to shove seven boxes of pizza down his throat. Or mine. Whichever killed who first.

I didn't know why I was being so cranky that day. It wasn't like anything terrible had happened to me. Maybe I was just crabby from not getting enough sleep. Maybe I was still bitter about the divorce. I knew my mom was. Maybe I was gonna start my period. Maybe all my emotions were mood swings brought on by PMS.

"You can't get your period," said Pete.

"What?" I asked for clarification, looking at him curiously. How had he known what I was thinking?

"You said maybe you were on your period, but you can't be because you don't have a vagina."

"How do you know I don't have a vagina?" I piped at him like the stubborn ass I was. I didn't have a vagina, I very much had a penis, but I wasn't gonna let Pete Wentz try and prove me wrong without making it difficult for him.

"Um," Pete said, drawing together his thick, caterpillar-looking eyebrows. "I guess I just assumed."

"Well maybe you shouldn't just assume everyone has a penis," I shot back.

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, whatever, I don't give a shit about what you have in your pants. The point is, only people with vaginas get their period. Trust me, I know. I read my older brother's entire sex ed book in fifth grade."

I stared at him for a while, wondering what, exactly, the fuck was wrong with him. He just stared back, blinking, totally unaware of what he just said. See what I'd meant by Pete Wentz being the weirdest dude in school?

It was 8:15 when the bus finally parked and everyone filed out. Pete caught up with the guy with the big lips and forehead and his tall, string bean looking friend, which I was totally fine with. I walked with Bob and Ray inside the school and to our lockers, which had been assigned to us the day of registration.

"There's so many new people," Ray mused, looking around in awe at the hundreds of bodies pushing and shoving in their attempts at trying to get to their lockers and/or friends.

"Not enough," Bob grumbled. "I still recognize all the people I hate."

"You hate everyone," I reminded him, dodging past a group of girls holding an _Oh My God I Haven't Seen You Since Last Week At Cindy's Party_ reunion.

"True," Bob agreed, smirking at the fact.

"My locker's right here," Ray said, stopping next to the locker number 182.

"Same," said Bob while tapping the locker next to Ray's, 183.

"Me t--" I began, but then I realized I wasn't. My locker was number 539. "Guys," I said, my whole mood deflating. First I couldn't hang out with them over the summer, then I couldn't sit by them on the bus, and now I didn't even have a locker near my best friends. "I don't know where this is."

"Let me see." I handed Ray my slip of paper that had all my classes and locker information. "I'm guessing you're somewhere near the hallway in the 500s, which is upstairs near the art department," he said.

"How did you know that?" I asked, never ceasing to be amazed by Ray's godlike abilities. It was no secret; Ray Toro was God. Everyone knew that, just like they knew Pete Wentz was weird.

"Ray and I went to the freshman orientation. They showed us around the school."

"What the hell?" I said. "When was this? And why wasn't I invited?" Had they "forgotten" to invite me to something again?

"It was the day Sweet Pea ran away," Ray reminded me softly. My angry, macho attitude deflated, and I slumped in on myself.

"Oh, yeah," I said, remembering that day. I'd been so busy looking for her that I must've forgotten about it.

"Look, they have teachers posted at every classroom," said Bob, motioning around. "If you need help finding where to go, just ask them. The art department is just up those stairs," he said, pointing to the staircase located at the end of the hallway next to their lockers.

"Okay," I said, trying not to show my disappointment too much. "See you guys later?"

"For sure," said Ray, his squeaky voice surprisingly putting me at ease. "I'm pretty sure we have the same lunch. Good luck!"

I left their lockers, holding my pencil and notebook tightly in my right fist. I tried not to look anyone directly in the eye because a majority of the kids were older, maybe juniors or seniors. Most of them towered over me, which wasn't hard because I was pretty short, barely even 5 feet.

I found my locker by following the blue numbers branded on the yellow lockers. My locker was right next to a classroom with a fairly young man standing by its door. I assumed he was the teacher, but he didn't really look like one, nevertheless an _art_ teacher. He had thick, messy tendrils of black hair that framed the sides of his face, and wore tight black jeans styled with black Converse and a white button shirt with the sleeves rolled up, topped with a black waistcoat that hugged his lean frame closely. The look was finished with a thin black tie hugged snuggly around his neck, and I'd be lying if I said that I walked past him like he wasn't even there. My eyes were locked on him, taking in his strange, not-so-teacher-looking appearance.

The man was speaking with a couple of older female students, smiling and nodding his head at the things they were saying. His teeth were tiny and the bigger he grinned, the more visible his high cheekbones became. It was obvious that the girls were clearly swooning over him, and I wondered if he noticed.

I tore my gaze away from him; the guy was pretty striking, no doubt, but I couldn't risk being late to class on the first day of school. I'd promised my mom not to cause any trouble until the first week was over.

I entered my locker's combination with ease, having practiced working with the locks over the summer. I didn't even know why I was at it. It wasn't like I needed anything; it was only the first day, so we weren't expected to bring anything other than a notebook and something to write with. Speaking of classes, I pulled out my schedule and studied it closely. My morning started with English first, followed by gym, world history, algebra, then finally, lunch. I wondered if I knew anyone in my classes. I probably did, since Belleville wasn't that big and almost everyone from Belleville Middle School was coming to Belleville High School.

As if on cue, a bell went off throughout the school, signifying that students had to start getting to class. With one last breath to calm my nerves, I shut my locker and prepared to find my English class, which didn't appear to be anywhere near my locker. _Thanks for the false information, Ray_ , I thought bitterly, even though I knew it wasn't his fault. I was just passing by the young teacher next to my locker as I made my way towards the flight of stairs I'd come from when I heard a strangely high-pitched voice call from behind me.

I figured the voice wasn't for me, but I turned my head back anyways just to be sure. I was wrong; the call had been for me, and it'd come from the young teacher surrounded by the growing number of teenaged girls.

"Me?" I mouthed, a little dumbfounded. He gave a curt nod of his head, and with a raise of his hand, he motioned for me to come towards him with a swift jerk from two of his fingers. I don't know what it was about that gesture, but I found it oddly appealing. To what, I didn't know, but it was.

"Are you a freshman?" he said. His voice was really strange. It was high-pitched, but not in a girly way. More like he spoke more with his nose rather than his throat. His voice was still very authoritative, though, and whether he wanted it or not, I gave him every ounce of my attention.

"Uh, yeah," I said. Jeez, was it that noticeable? His hazel eyes seemed to focus solely on my very being. It was kind of uncomfortable.

"These lockers are for seniors," he said, motioning around the hallway while shooing off the girls, murmuring for them to get to class as another bell rang. "Can I take a look at your schedule?"

A strange feeling of nervousness and embarrassment began to overwhelm me. I wasn't sure if it was because of the girls still staring at us, or if it was because I was being singled out by this guy on the first day of school. I unfolded the slightly wrinkled sheet of white paper and handed it over to him. He studied it for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing while he concentrated.

"This is weird," he finally concluded. He beckoned me closer with the same finger motion as before so that I could look at the schedule with him. I hesitated before taking a couple steps forward. "See, your first class is in the 200s, so your locker should be downstairs. The scheduling system must've gotten screwed up. Would you like me to go to the office with you to see if you can get this fixed?"

"Uh," I said, staring at him awkwardly. I suddenly wished I'd attempted to put a little more work into my appearance. "Am I gonna get in trouble if I'm up here?"

"Not necessarily," he said. "It's the school's fault, anyways. It might take you a little longer to get to English, but I doubt Mr. Armstrong will mind."

"I mean, if it's not a big deal, I guess I'll just leave it the way it is," I said, not really looking at him while I spoke.

"Okay," he said, shrugging and handing me my schedule. His hands were very pale, and his nails were bitten down to the skin. "I just hope you don't feel overwhelmed by any of the seniors, is all. As far as I'm aware, you're the only freshman in this area."

I worked up a smile to let him know I didn't mind. "I'll be fine."

"I'm sure of it," he said, returning me with a genuine smile of his own. "Do you know the way to your next class?"

I should've said yes, but something told me that I might as well tell the guy the truth. "Not really, no. I didn't get to come to orientation, so I'm, like, way more lost than any of the others."

His smile turned into a wide grin. "You'll find your way eventually. Everyone does. Here, I'll take you to your next class. It's easier than trying to explain all the hallways and turns to take."

"Are you sure?" I asked, feeling slightly embarrassed about having to be walked to class by a teacher. Jesus Christ, I was such a freshman, it was embarrassing.

"Yeah, it's not a problem. You don't want to be more late than you already are, and I don't have a class at the moment." It was then that I realized none of the girls that'd previously been surrounding him had entered his classroom. Had they just been stopping to talk with him? Was the guy some infamous teacher around here? Was he everyone's favorite? He looked like he could be. He was young, moderately attractive, and he seemed pretty nice, although a bit too intense to consider approachable.

"Okay, uh, sure, thanks," I said. He gave a nod of his head and did the same finger gesture as before to get me to follow him.

"So," he said as I followed him down a flight of stairs that were opposite the ones I'd previously been heading. "What's your name?"

"Frank. Iero. Frank Iero," I answered, standing more behind him than next to. He turned his head to glance back at me, a strange twinkle in his eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Frank Iero. I'm Gerard, but I'd prefer for you to refer to me as Mr. Way."

"I don't think I've ever heard a teacher introduce themselves with their first name," I said as we turned down a near empty hallway, saved for a couple of kids still trying to find their classes.

"I know, it's why I do it. I think it's stupid of teachers to try and hide their first names from their students. It's like, if you give your students respect, your students will respect you right back and will call you by your last name anyways. I don't know, that's just how I see it." He flashed me a cheeky grin, one that almost caused me to run into a water fountain had he not warned me to watch my step.

"Here we are," he said a couple seconds later, stopping in front of a closed door with a class going on inside. "This is the English department, and right here is Mr. Armstrong's room. He's really cool, just don't bring up anything Justin Bieber related." I couldn't tell whether or not that last part was a joke, and suddenly I was really interested in knowing what, exactly, had happened with Justin Bieber.

Mr. Way knocked on the door twice and opened it wide. "Got enough room for one more?" he asked the teacher standing at the front of the classroom.

"Why, would you care to join us, Gerard?" the teacher, Mr. Armstrong, I assumed, responded. Mr. Way smirked, cheekbones exposing themselves as he did so.

"Not today. I have a student of yours, actually." Mr. Way turned to me and did that finger motion for me to come closer, and holy shit, I don't know why that gesture made me feel so weak in the knees but it did.

"And who would you be?" asked Mr. Armstrong. He had bright green eyes and, although looking to be in his forties, had short black hair that didn't show any signs of thinning or balding. He was dressed in a pair of khakis and a black button up shirt with a red tie.

"Frank Iero," I said, not daring to look at any of the students. I fought hard against the blush trying to form on my cheeks that was brought on by the embarrassment of being put so out in the open like this. Mr. Armstrong checked something off a sheet of paper, the class list, I assumed, and with a swift wave of his arm, motioned for me to take a seat.

Mr. Way left after that, probably going to help the other students we saw in the hall. I didn't know what it was about him, but he seriously came off as more of a student than a teacher.

"Alright, so, as I was saying," continued Mr. Armstrong, "the list of class requirements is written on the board. Please copy them all down and have everything by this Friday. I'll be doing a supplies check, so make sure you tell your parents beforehand so they can take you to the store."

The morning went by pretty quickly after that. Surprisingly enough, gym hadn't been that bad, either. The teachers, Coach Hoppus and Coach Delonge, were pretty amusing, despite them wearing shorts that rode up their asses and embarrassing sweatbands.

By the time lunch rolled around, I realized that I forgot my lunch at home, and I didn't have any money on me. "Fucking hell," I muttered, sitting at the first empty table I could find. Ray found me a couple minutes later; Bob arrived last.

"What's wrong?" Ray asked, seated to my left while Bob sat across from me. "Why aren't you eating?"

"I forgot my lunch and money," I sighed, slumping in seat.

"Dude, you can have some of ours," said Ray, like it was no big deal at all. "Right, Bob?"

Bob stopped chewing the food in his mouth and swallowed slowly. He glanced down at his lunch, which consisted of a PB&J sandwich, a slice of pizza, a carton of fries and two bowls of macaroni and cheese. "Uh," he said when Ray and I kept staring. Finally, he took out one of the french fries and slid it across the table for me. I stared at him.

"Really, Robert?" Ray said, sounding just as done as I felt.

"Dude," said Bob, and I could tell he was getting defensive, "I haven't eaten since last night! Plus, this is my first time having the choice to eat what I want, and high school food is supposed to be ten times better than middle school food, and Jesus Christ, can't a guy just enjoy himself?"

Ray rolled his eyes. "Forget it. Come on, Frank, I'll get you something."

"I'll pay you back tomorrow," I promised him, ever grateful for the perfect human being that Ray Toro was.

"Just pay me back in guitar picks, yeah? I keep losing mine."

"They're probably in your fro," Bob said through his mouthful of greasy cheese pizza.

Ray sucked in his cheeks, aggravated, before puffing them out and making a forlorn expression. "I've checked, and trust me, they're not."

After waiting five or six minutes for the gigantic lunch lines to shorten up, Ray and I went up and ordered our food. We both got a giant slice of pizza, cheese for me and sausage for Ray; it was so greasy I could feel it leaking through the paper plate.

"Awesome," Ray whispered, his eyes almost as big as his hair. I nodded my head in agreement. When we went to sit back down, we found another person other than Bob occupying our table.

"Bob, what the fuck," I said, motioning towards Pete Wentz. He was sitting next to the spot where I was about to sit, crumpling up dozens of napkins.

"I just went up to get ketchup for my fries and I came back to him. He wouldn't leave," responded Bob with a shrug.

"Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross won't let me sit with them," Pete blurted out.

"I didn't ask," I said. Ray mumbled for me to be nice.

"They made friends with some transfer student, Jon or whatever--which is a stupid name, by the way, because he doesn't even spell it with an 'h'--and they let him sit with them instead of _me_ ," Pete continued to whine, then began shredding the crumpled napkins to bits.

"So?" I said. "Go sit with Gabe and William."

"They're sitting with Brendon and Ryan and Spencer and Travie and  _Jon_ ," Pete said, nearly spitting Jon's name. He looked betrayed, and I could tell he was hurt when he began ripping the shredded napkins via his giant teeth.

Bob, Ray and I all looked at each other for a good minute before, finally, I rolled my eyes and sat down in my seat. "Fine," I said.

"I can stay?" Pete asked, brown eyes big and hopeful.

"Sure," said Ray. Pete smiled hugely.

"Thanks so much guys, I swear you won't regret this!" he promised us excitedly. Then his eyes landed on my plate. "Ooh, is that cheese pizza? Can I have a bite, Frank?"

Yeah, I was regretting it already.

* * *

By the time the school day was over, I was way more energized than I'd been in the morning. Partly because I'd taken a nap during biology, and partly because my afternoon classes had a lot of people that I already knew and got to talk with. The day had gone by pretty fast, and I was even starting to get the hang of a couple hallways.

Mr. Way was at his door again, saying goodbye to his students as they left his classroom. He must've spotted me at my locker because he smiled and said, "Hey, Frank. How was your first day?"

"Okay," I said, shrugging a little. He arched one of his thick yet sharply-styled eyebrows.

"Did you find all your classes?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, chewing on my bottom lip awkwardly. He nodded his head, and when he saw I had nothing else to say, he turned around to head back into his classroom. I suddenly remembered who I was talking to and blurted out, "Thank you, again," before he could enter his room. He turned back around, his face brighter than before.

"No problem! I'm always happy to help. If you ever need anything, you know where I am." He gave a friendly wink and smile then returned to his classroom, the door shutting softly behind him.

The entire ride back home on the bus, I couldn't stop thinking about that wink. Not even with Pete gossipping to me about totally untrue rumors about the new kid, Jon Walker. I didn't even know who the guy was, he might've been in my gym class, I wasn't too sure, but I knew Pete couldn't come up with fallacies for shit. I also knew that Mr. Way's wink had left me totally buzzed with strangely mixed emotions in the pit of my stomach, which was weird because I knew he'd only meant it in a friendly manner. I mean, what other manner was there?

What if I'd totally imagined the wink? I have been pretty sleep deprived lately. Or, what if I'd thought he was winking at me, when in actuality he just had an eye twitch?

Jesus Christ, I don't even know why I was so obsessive over a damn wink anyways. Maybe it was because all of my teachers were in their late thirties and early sixties, and Mr. Way had to at least be in his early twenties--he seriously looked fresh out of college, it was crazy. Maybe it was because Mr. Way was young and attractive. Maybe it was because of the laidback way Mr. Way dressed. Maybe it was because Mr. Way had actually voluntarily put himself in my path, when other people in my life were desperate to get out of it.

* * *

It was almost three months into my freshman year of high school, exactly one day before my fifteenth birthday, when I realized my high school experience was going to turn out way different than I'd assumed in the very beginning of the year.

I walked into my algebra class, dragging my feet with dread. I hated math; it was my worst subject, and I didn't understand why I even needed to know it. I could add, subtract, multiply and divide, so whose bright fucking idea was it to throw the quadratic formula into everything?

"Where's Mr. Dirnt?" asked the kid with big lips and matching forehead. I found out his name was actually Brendon Urie, not Branden Urine. Mr. Dirnt, our math teacher, was usually always in the classroom before any of us arrived, so it was kind of weird that he still hadn't showed up even after the final bell.

"I think we have a sub," I said, looking at the whiteboard where an agenda was written. Mr. Dirnt only ever wrote those when we had a substitute so that we knew what to do. None of us ever did it, though.

As if on cue, the classroom door opened and revealed a man dressed in a black button-up shirt tucked into a pair of tight, pin-striped dress pants. I recognized the man immediately as Mr. Way because of the way his messy black hair fell around his face and how his thin, pointy nose should've made him ugly, but instead fit his face perfectly.

"Sorry I'm late, people don't know how to walk in the hallways. I swear, the school needs to install escalators. Maybe then students will actually move and get to class on time," he joked lightly, earning a couple smiles from the students. I just stared at him, completely overwhelmed by the man's entire existence. I hadn't spoken to him since the first day of school, and he hadn't made any attempts at talking to me, either. He might've smiled at me once or twice in the morning, but after school he was busy talking to students. It didn't take very long for me to confirm the fact that, yes, Mr. Way was extremely popular with the students of Belleville High, and was definitely one of their favorites. Hell, I didn't even have him as a teacher, but I still considered him a favorite.

Mr. Way made his way to the front of the classroom, black dress shoes sleek against the dirty tile floors. "Frank," Mr. Way said, once he was situated in the front. My eyes locked on his. He looked cool, calm and collected, the exact opposite of what I felt. I hadn't heard him say my name since the first day; I thought he might've forgotten it. "If you would take your seat, I'd really appreciate it," he told me, smirking amusedly at me. It was then that I realized I was still standing next to my desk, even after seven minutes into the class. A couple kids giggled like the fucking five year olds they were.

I sat down immediately, slumping in my seat and hiding behind my algebra textbook. Mr. Way already had his attention on the rest of the class and was in the process of introducing himself when I finally stopped blushing enough to sit up a little straighter.

"Alright, so, my name is Mr. Way. Some of you might've seen me in the art department where I teach AP art history and senior art classes. Do you know what that means?" he asked the class. I saw a couple kids glancing at each other from the corner of my eye. Mr. Way began walking up and down the front of the classroom leisurely; I was thankful to be all the way in the back.

"It means," he continued, his playful grin outlining his high cheekbones, "that if you have a question about math, chances are I won't be able to answer it." More kids laughed again, including myself, and holy shit, this guy was so easily fucking _likable_. "But if you have any questions about the history of the _Mona Lisa_ or how to draw Batman in under two minutes, I'm your guy."

After that, Mr. Way brought our attention to the whiteboard where our assignment was listed. Everyone was groaning and making a fuss about it like they usually did when there was a substitute who didn't enforce the rules. "How about I put on some music for you guys to work to?" he offered, and everyone, including myself, immediately picked him up on the offer. He dug into his pocket and retrieved a key. "Frank, since you like to stand so much, would you mind running into my classroom and grabbing my record player?"

"Uh," I said, trying not to acknowledge the jealous looks on my classmate's faces because I got to walk around the school and they didn't. "Sure."

He smiled, tiny teeth and all, and walked over to me to place his classroom key on my desk. "Would one other person like to go with him?" Mr. Way asked the class. Several hands immediately shot into the air. "You," he said, pointing to the kid with the big lips and forehead. "What's your name?"

"Brendon Urie," said Brendon, excited about being chosen. He was such a teacher's pet.

"You and Frank can head to my classroom, room 501," said Mr. Way. The two of us left the room, Brendon having to follow me since I was the one who knew the way.

Brendon and I had never really been friends. I mean, we didn't hate each other or anything; we just never really hung out. Even though we were both pretty well-known throughout the ninth grade, we were part of two different crowds. Also, a lot more people hated me than him. Besides, he was only popular because he was best friends with Ryan Ross, who was best friends with Spencer Smith, who was friends with the second most popular sophomore, William Beckett, who was in turn best friends with the most popular sophomore, Travie McCoy. What was weird was that Brendon used to actually be best friends with Pete Wentz, who had been close with Gabe Saporta, William Beckett's boyfriend. So, like, even though Pete Wentz had been the weirdest kid in school, he'd technically also kind of been one of the coolest, and without him Brendon wouldn't have been shit to the high school social pyramid.

"It was kind of shitty of you to drop Pete Wentz from your lunch table," I told Brendon while we went up a flight of stairs. He looked at me, probably surprised that I had the balls to confront him about such a thing.

"Uh," he said, looking away and shrugging. "Well, yeah, I guess. But we didn't know Gabe, William and Travie were going to have the same lunch as us, and then we met Jon Walker. Have you met Jon Walker?" I nodded my head, yes. He always got picked first during gym. "He's awesome, and the lunch tables only have so many seats, you know? So someone had to move, and that someone just so happened to be Pete. We're still friends, though."

"Yeah, well," I said, shooting daggers at him. "Now Pete's sitting at our table, and none of us have been able to eat a slice of our pizza without Pete asking if he can have some."

"Tell him to get his own," Brendon responded, as if we hadn't already tried that.

"Look, we've been letting him sit with us since the beginning of the school year. Can't you just take him back?"

"No way," he said, following me down the hallway filled with the senior (plus one freshman) lockers. "Last year he always stole our napkins and tried to make origami swans out of them. It sucked."

I rolled my eyes. At least I'd tried. "Fine." It's not like Pete was actually that bad, he was just weird. But with weirdness came amusement, and Ray, Bob and I always had fun laughing at the strange things Pete ended up doing.

I used the key Mr. Way gave me to unlock his classroom door. The lights were off, and the room smelled strongly of fresh paints and drying clay. I'd never been inside his classroom before, and once Brendon flipped on the switch, the artwork hanging all over the classroom immediately ensnared our attentions.

"Holy shit," Brendon mused. I nodded in agreement. "These are amazing." He ventured over to a couple of charcoal drawings lying on top of a table pushed off to the side, awaiting for its artists to return. I went over to the front of the classroom where an unfinished painting was set up on an easel. Although only half done, I could see that the painting was of a highly detailed and hyperrealistic flower field, the smoothness of the paint strokes never striking me as beautiful until I realized who had painted them.

"I wish I was good at art," I commented. Brendon returned to my side, a bundle of twizzlers hanging out of his mouth. "Where'd you get those?" I asked, furrowing my brows. I was at least 97% sure he hadn't had those when we came in.

"Miftur Wav hath a jy-ant hing av hem in tha beck," he said around his chewing. I pulled the candy out of his mouth so he'd be easier to understand. "Hey!" he yelped, tearing the slobbery treats from my palm. I made a face and wiped his spit off from my hand and onto his shirt. "Mr. Way has a giant thing of them in the back," he re-explained, pointing to a huge bin of the twisted red candies. I immediately jogged to the back of the class, picking up a handful and popping one into my mouth.

Yeah, there was no doubt that Mr. Way was my favorite teacher.

After we stuffed a couple dozens of twizzlers into our pockets for later, I grabbed the record player and held it tightly so it wouldn't fall out of my grip. Brendon picked out a vinyl from the small collection next to Mr. Way's desk.

"You like Radiohead?" I asked him while walking back to math class. More importantly, Mr. _Way_ liked Radiohead?

"Hell yeah. It was either that or The Beatles, but Ryan always forces me to listen to them with him."

I thought about the lanky kid from the bus. He wore a lot of paisley, it was weird. "Ryan Ross is weird," I stated. Brendon slapped my arm with one of his twizzlers. "Ow!" Shit, those things hurt!

"Only I'm allowed to call him weird."

When we finally made it back to the class, it seemed as if everyone had abandoned their classwork to watch Mr. Way doodle an unmistakeable scene from one of my favorite comic book series across the whiteboard.

"There you two are," said Mr. Way at the sound of the door closing behind us. He capped the Expo marker in his hand and gestured for the record player. As his fingers briefly brushed against my own during the transfer, he looked down into my eyes and said, "Thank you for not dropping it," a genuine smile on his lips. From this close, I realized that he talked out of the side of his mouth, and if that wasn't the coolest way to talk then I didn't know what was.

"No problem," I responded, going back to my seat so Brendon could give him the vinyl. Mr. Way looked impressed at the fact that two freshman actually liked Radiohead and weren't totally down the drain with the rest of this generation's youth.

Mr. Way started up the vinyl and set it to a comfortable volume that would help everyone focus instead of becoming distracted. I couldn't focus on the math in front of me, though. At least not with Mr. Way in the same exact room as me, using up the ink of all the Expo markers to create a detailed doodle from _Doom Patrol_ while Radiohead played in the background.

The fact that Mr. Way appeared to like all of the same things as I did made him seem even younger and cooler. I don't know why I was filled with the urge to get to know him better, why I wanted to know what else he liked, didn't like, and everything in between. In a sense, it was almost like I was beginning to look up to Mr. Way, which was weird because I never ever actually looked up to anyone besides my dad. And we saw what happened with that.

When the bell finally rang, the students gathered up their things and hurried out the door. Several of them called goodbyes and wished Mr. Way a good afternoon; Mr. Way responded back to each one. I was the last one to leave, unable to stop staring at the masterpiece he had created.

"Frank?" said Mr. Way in an attempt to earn my attention. I gave it to him without a moment's hesitation. "What's up? Don't you have another class to get to?"

"Lunch," I answered with a shrug. It's not like I'd get in trouble for showing up there late. "I like your drawing," I told him, motioning toward the whiteboard--well, _color_ board, now. "I would've never guessed you were into _Doom Patrol_."

He grinned. "Oh, man, _Doom Patrol_ was my entire youth. I'm surprised _you_ recognized it."

"Recognize?" I scoffed, grinning right back. "I _live_ for _Doom Patrol_. I've read the first issue at least twenty times."

Mr. Way looked surprised. "Is that so? What other comics do you like?"

I blushed and bit my bottom lip awkwardly. "Well, I've only really read _Doom Patrol_ , actually. I've tried getting into the X-men series, but my friend Ray borrowed them all before I could read them."

Mr. Way nodded understandingly. "I see," he said. "I actually have the entire series. If you're interested, I could let you borrow them for a bit."

My eyes widened at the thought. "Seriously?" I asked. He nodded his head and returned to the front of the classroom. I watched in horror as he began to erase the board.

"You're erasing it?" I asked him, and I swear my voice had cracked from shock, not puberty. Gerard laughed, a high-pitched giggle that made my ears ring.

"Yeah. A math class is no place for creativity, Frank. I'm sure you're well aware of that."

I didn't know how to respond to that until the bell rang, signaling that everyone should be in their designated places around the school.

"I've gotta go," I told him, backing up towards the door.

"You still interested in reading X-men?" he called after me. I stopped walking.

"Of course," I answered, unable to stop smiling. Seriously, how cool was it that a teacher as awesome as Mr. Way was allowing me to borrow some of his comics, something he probably prided himself in very much? "Have a good afternoon, Mr. Way."

"You too, Frank." I could practically hear the smile in his voice as I shut the door behind me and hurried to switch out my books at my locker. When I finally got to the lunch room, Bob, Ray and Pete already had their lunches and were almost halfway done when I finally sat down with my own lunch.

"Hey, Frankie," Pete greeted.

"Don't call me that," I said, giving him a weird look. It was the only look I ever actually gave him, so by then he probably thought my face just always looked that way and was totally unfazed.

"Sure, no problem."

"Where've you been?" asked Ray.

"Math," I answered.

Bob gave me a weird look. "Since when did you stay after class for math?"

"It wasn't for math," I said. "I was talking to the substitute we had, and he was really cool. He played Radiohead during class."

"Lucky," said Ray after taking a bite of his chicken nugget. Pete reached over and stole one off his tray. "I hate being in the smart classes. Nothing fun ever happens."

"Wah wah wah," said Bob, rolling his eyes. "You have one of the highest GPAs so far, so shut up."

After the fuss between the two of them quieted, I decided to speak up again. "So, I'm thinking of joining AP art history."

" _What_?" choked Bob, coughing up a piece of unchewed pizza. Pete went to reach for it, but Ray gave him a look and mouthed " _don't_ ," so he dropped his arm. "You hate art!" Bob continued, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.

"Na-uh," I said, scowling at him.

"Yes, you do! Just last week you made fun of the Mona Lisa for not having any eyebrows."

"So? Maybe I've changed."

"Well, you can't take that class until you're at least a sophomore," Ray said.

"And you only have one elective next year, so you'd be wasting it," Pete piped in.

"Yeah, and I thought you wanted to take Intro to Music with me and Pete next year," Ray reminded me.

"Fine, I'll take it as a junior."

"You said you'd take woodshop with me then." Now it was Bob's turn to remind me. I groaned. Didn't my friends understand my need to be with--I mean, _in_ \--in Mr. Way's class?

"I'll take woodshop with you senior year," I bargained. "I'll have two electives by then, so I can take the senior art class, too."

"An art class?" Pete and Bob laughed. Ray was too busy trying to open his tapioca pudding to join in.

"You can't make art for shit," Bob snorted. By then I was fuming.

"That's why it's a _class_ offered in a _school_ , _Bob_ ," I seethed. "It's called I'll fucking _learn_."

"Okay, okay, jeez, calm down," he said, rolling his bright blue orbs skyward.

"You said you wanted to learn how to play guitar with me, not draw," Ray said, looking a little hurt. I sighed, exasperated.

"I can do both, genius. I already know how to play most of the chords, and how to hold a pencil. I mean, come on, how hard can drawing and painting actually be?"

"Um, _very_?" interjected a feminine voice from behind me. I turned to see Hayley Williams, a girl with bright orange hair that sat at the table next to ours. She had turned away from her group of friends to face all of us. "My sister had been in Mr. Way's senior art class. She said that he was a total dick and ripped her final project apart because she used the wrong charcoal pencil."

I furrowed my brows in disbelief. "Really?" I asked, doubtful. She nodded and took a confident bite of her apple, bits of the juice spraying out due to the force of the bite. "He's been pretty nice to me. He subbed during my math class."

Hayley just shook her head. "Trust me, you don't know what you're getting into if you sign up for his classes. He's literally the equivalent to Satan; beautiful but awful enough to get kicked out of Heaven. And you'll see what I mean when he makes your life a living _hell_." With that dramatic ending in mind, she turned back to her friends, orange strands of straightened hair nearly smacking me in the eye. I swiveled around to face the guys.

"Holy shit," whispered Pete. "Hayley got hot."

"And bitchier," I muttered, crossing my arms over his chest. I was in too sour of a mood to eat, so when Pete made whimpering noises at my slice of pizza, I gladly slid it over to him.

* * *

That following morning, Bob and Ray hadn't been at the bus stop. I texted both of them twice asking where they were and that the bus was coming soon, but neither of them responded. "Fucking hell," I muttered, shoving my phone into my pocket as the bus turned the corner. It was my birthday _and_ Halloween, and the jerks weren't even going to show up to school?

When the yellow bus pulled up to the stop, I barely had my foot placed on the first step when a familiar voice shouted, "Happy birthday, Frankie!"

Everyone on the bus turned back to stare at Pete Wentz, who was standing up on the bus seat and holding out a small black bag with orange tissue paper jutting out from the top. He was wearing a giant, oversized skeleton onesie, and I was almost more embarrassed for him than I was for myself.

"Sit down, Wentz," the bus driver called back to him, looking like he was ready to tie Pete to the top of the bus and leave him there. Pete did. I kept my head down while making my way over to him, only nodding when someone told me happy birthday, thanks to Pete's announcement. Even Brendon wished it to me, oddly enough.

"I said not to call me Frankie," I muttered to Pete, sinking low in my seat.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Happy birthday, Frank!" he tried again, and nearly hit me in the face with the bag as he flung out his arms. I pushed his arms back down to his sides.

"What's that?" I asked, nodding at the black bag.

"A present, for you," he said, pushing it against my chest, and suddenly I felt really bad about giving him such a hard time for sitting with us at lunch.

"Oh," I said, surprised. "Thanks."

"No problem. Hurry up and open it."

The bus lurched forwards. I took out a couple of the tissue papers, digging through the bag, but came up with nothing. "Uh?" I said, giving Pete a weird look. He was smiling hugely, giant teeth sparkling in the sunlight.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"I don't know what to like," I answered honestly. He rolled his eyes.

"The tissue paper! I'm gonna make you any kind of origami you want from them," he explained. I stared at him for a moment, trying to see if he was serious or not. He just kept smiling. He was so weird.

"Ah. I see. Thanks, Pete," I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

"You're welcome," he said, already beginning to fold one.

"Do you know where Bob and Ray are?" I asked after a minute or two of silence.

"Nope," he answered quickly, barely letting me get out the full question. I looked at him suspiciously, but he just kept folding the paper, either oblivious to my stares or purposely trying to avoid my eyes. With Pete, you really didn't know.

By the time the bus had pulled up to the school, Pete admitted to me that he didn't actually know how to do origami and that he'd learn so he could really make me something for my birthday. I'd already figured that he didn't know because every time he attempted to fold the napkins during lunch, they ended up in torn-up balls, just like Brendon had said.

Pete ditched me for Brendon and Ryan, and I made my way through the hallway with the seniors. It had gotten a lot easier to find my way around since the first day, thankfully, but the senior hallway was still a bit overwhelming. I wasn't sure if it was because I was a freshman or because I was really short, but either way I was frequently targeted by the older kids. I was too small and helpless to really do anything, though, so I got pretty used to it after a while.

When I finally reached my locker, I was confused. The previously eyesore yellow paint that'd been peppered with rust was now covered in Halloween decorations and black latex balloons that read "Happy Birthday Frank" in silver sharpies. One the scale of 1 to 10, My grumpy mood of 2 immediately shot up to a cheerful 7 at the sight of my decorated locker.

"Hey, Frank," said a voice I'd recognize any day, no matter how loud the hallways were. I turned to see Mr. Way standing next to his classroom door. He was dressed a lot more casually than usual, wearing a short-sleeved black shirt and a pair of loose black skinny jeans. In the spirit of Halloween, he must've painted skeletal bones down his pale arms. They looked highly realistic considering the amount of detail he put into the shading and outlining. Mr. Way left his position to walk over to me, the smile on his lips matching the one in his eyes.

"Did you do this?" I asked him. He laughed, shaking his head, and immediately I was filled with embarrassment. Of course he hadn't; he was a teacher. Teachers didn't go around decorating students' lockers, that was weird.

"No. I think it was your friends, the one with the crazy fro and the one that looks like he'd beat you up if you pronounced his name wrong." I chuckled at his descriptions of Ray and Bob. Of course it'd been them; they must've arrived at school early so they could surprise me. "If I'd known ahead of time that your birthday was on Halloween, I could've definitely pulled something together for you," he said, nodding at my locker.

"I believe you," I replied, having already gotten a peek at his artistic talents.

"I love your shirt; the Misfits are the shit--oops, sorry, I mean awesome. Try not to get dress coded for it, though," he said, and that was when I realized that my favorite black Misfits t-shirt had a skull on it.

"Oh," I said. I looked at him worriedly, fearful of having to change into one of the gym shirts, but he just smiled and shook his head.

"I'll let you get away with it because, one, it's your birthday, two, it's Halloween, and three, it's Misfits." I grinned at him, then turned to enter my combination. I opened my locker and stuffed my backpack away.

"Oh, here," Mr. Way said, and offered me a small paper bag. I took out its contents, my day automatically getting ten times better. First my mom woke me up with breakfast in bed, then Pete gave me a present (and even though it had been terrible, I still appreciated him for trying), then Bob and Ray came to school early to decorate my locker, and now Mr. Way was letting me borrow two of the first comics in the X-men series.

"Thanks so much, Mr. Way," I said, showing my appreciation by smiling thankfully. I could've hugged him, but something told me that a student hugging a teacher wasn't socially acceptable, especially in a crowded hallway like this.

"Promise you'll take good care of them?" he asked, and although he didn't seem too worried, I could tell by the look in his eyes that he really cared for the comics.

"Of course, yeah, I promise," I said, even going as far as holding out my pinkie for a pinkie promise. He laughed, no, _giggled_ , actually _giggled_ , and locked his pinkie finger with mine for a brief second before placing his hand back at his side. His fingers were longer than mine, but all of his nails were still gnawed down to their nubs.

"Now hurry up and get to class, you don't wanna get detention on your birthday," he joked lightly, heading back to his own classroom. I nodded my head and thanked him again before returning to my locker and tucking the comics safely away in my backpack. I grabbed my first and second period materials and nearly danced my way to English, thinking about how awesome Mr. Way was.

Hayley had to have been wrong. I mean, I still had no idea if she'd really been telling the truth or not, but I highly doubted the authenticity of her words. I mean, Mr. Way had been so nice to me on the first day of school, even going as far as walking me to my first class. He always had at least two students stopping and talking to him throughout the day, and everyone in my math class had loved how laid back he was compared to the other substitutes we'd had in the past. He listened to Radiohead and the Misfits, read _Doom Patrol_ , and even kept giant bins of twizzlers in his classroom. The guy also just let me borrow his prized comic books and didn't write me up for dresscode violation; how could he really be as terrible as Hayley insisted?

 _She probably just said it to deter you_ , my mind suggested, which sounded logical enough. She was probably just like the girls in the hallway who always tried to get Mr. Way's attention, and got incredibly jealous when he talked to me instead.

* * *

The school year was finally over. The final bell of my first year of high school rang loudly throughout the school; students nearly sprinted out of their classrooms, free from late-night study sessions, lethal homework assignments, overbearing teachers and the damned crowdedness of Belleville High's hallways. I had to admit, my first year of high school had actually gone a lot better than I'd planned for it to be. I didn't know if it was because I had actually become friends with more people than I had ever dream of voluntarily interacting with ( _cough_ , Pete Wentz, _cough_ ), or if it was because of Mr. Way. Even though I'd never actually had him as a teacher of my own, he practically had been. As the year progressed, we had begun talking more in between class periods, if only for a minute or so. It didn't matter; the guy was incredible, and the feelings that rushed through me whenever he said my name or smiled was becoming mildly overwhelming. I still didn't know what to classify those feelings as, and didn't even know why they were actually happening. When it came down to it, Mr. Way had definitely come to mean a lot more to me than I'd planned, and I couldn't help but look up to him with every ounce of my being. He was everything I wanted to be, from his confidence, to his socialness, to even his talents.

I'd finally finished the X-men comic book series on that final day of school, too. Our system was that Mr. Way would lend me two new comics each time I would return the ones I finished, and if it weren't for him lending me ten of them over winter break, I probably wouldn't have ever finished and would've had to wait until the upcoming fall to start reading them again.

I made my way to my locker, ducking and dodging past the ecstatic students. The senior lockers were already empty since they'd gotten out of school a few days before everyone else, so I was able to reach my locker in one piece. Mr. Way was on hall duty, saying goodbye and giving brief hugs to the students who asked. I lingered by my locker for a while, waiting for everyone to leave so I could approach Mr. Way myself. It was nearly 3:15 when he was finally free, giving me ten minutes until the busses left.

"Frank, hey," he greeted, an apologetic smile on his lips as he neared me. "Sorry about that. I guess I'm a little popular," he joked, and I smiled back.

"It's fine." Everyone loved him, I completely understood. I reached into my backpack and pulled out the last two comics he'd lent me. "Thank you again," I said as he took them.

"No problem. Did you like them? What'd you think of the ending?" He was always excited to discuss the comics with me, and I could tell he'd been dying for me to finish the series so that we could talk about the ending. Well, _he_  did most of the talking; I just nodded and made sounds of agreement. But he was really passionate about _Doom Patrol_ , even more than I was, so I didn't mind listening. I could've listened to him talk for hours.

"It was awesome, I loved it," I answered honestly, feeding off of his excitement. "I can't believe Negative Man--"

"Gerard?" a female voice interrupted. We both turned to see a woman standing outside the door across from Mr. Way's. She had short, inky black hair that was pulled into a ponytail, but she let her bangs fall just above the frame of her black square glasses. The woman, who looked around Mr. Way's age, had on tall high-heeled shoes, a long black pencil skirt and a ruffled white blouse that she had unbuttoned fairly low. The first thing you noticed about her was the intensity of the redness painted on her lips that contrasted greatly with the fairness of her skin. She was extremely good-looking, and I wondered why I had never seen her before.

"Sorry, one sec," he said to me, then turned to the woman. "Yeah?"

"All the teachers are going out for lunch. You're still coming, right?"

Mr. Way looked slightly uncomfortable. "Um," was all he said, and shrugged.

"You promised," she said, and the flirtatious quirk of her lips was hard to miss. If I noticed them, Mr. Way had to, too. She walked over to him, a leisure swish to her hips, and holy shit, who was this lady?

"I don't know, I have a lot of cleaning up to do," Mr. Way said, rubbing the back of his neck unsurely. I didn't know why he was acting so timid all of a sudden. Was he not attracted to her? Was he nervous? It had to be the latter; I couldn't imagine anyone not finding the lady beautiful.

"I'll help you," she offered, the purr in her voice unmistakable as she rested the tips of her long, thin fingertips against his chin. Mr. Way's eyes darted towards me and he coughed; the woman glanced at me, looked back at him, then locked on me and she immediately dropped her hand, a blush overcoming her high cheekbones.

"Um," said Mr. Way, straightening out his thin black tie. "Frank, this is Miss Ballato. She teaches ceramics and jewelry," he said to me, nodding to the now bashful woman. "Lindsey, this is Frank. He just finished his first year of high school."

"Oh, hi," she said, holding out her hand for me to shake, the very one that had brushed against Mr. Way's chin. I'm pretty sure I shook it more so for the previously mentioned reason rather than out of politeness. "I didn't even see you there, you're so little," she chided, tapping the side of my face dotingly. I didn't want to dislike her, but anytime someone poked fun at my height I immediately felt a detest for them.

"Hopefully this summer'll cue my growth spurt," I joked lamely, chewing on my bottom lip. Both of the adults laughed; Miss Ballato's smile lit up the hallways while Mr. Way's seemed to light up my heart.

Wait, what?

"Well, I hope you don't mind it if I steal Mr. Way from you. Believe it or not, us teachers are just as thankful for summer vacation as the students," she said.

"We are?" Mr. Way asked, and I could tell he meant it, but Miss Ballato giggled anyways.

"It was nice meeting you, Frank," she said, taking hold of Mr. Way's arm and starting to pull him into his classroom. He was getting flustered, and I felt sorry for him, but also a little envious of her.

Wait, _what?_

"Have a good summer, Frank," Mr. Way called to me before the door closed behind him. I waved an awkward goodbye at the spot he'd once been standing.

"You too, Mr. Way," I mumbled to myself as I heard the door lock. I swung my backpack over my shoulders and made my way to the bussing lot, wondering why, exactly, I felt so let down about the fact that Mr. Way had someone as beautiful as Miss Ballato that desired him. I mean, how could I ever compete with someone like her?

 _Wait, **what?**_  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading the first part! Please leave kudos, and I'd really appreciate any comments about what you think of the story so far!!!


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